The Fabulous Valley

By Dennis Wheatley

The fantastic story of an estranged family, brought together by the death of the so called, "uncle John" to attend to the reading out of his will.

Mocking his family, the dead man left his riches to complete strangers and people he had met once...or twice. But, tantalisingly, he did leave with his family the secret to his wealth; a mythical valley of diamonds deep in the Kalahari. The family, grumpy old Henry and his daughter Patricia, the brothers, Earnest and George, their half brother, Michael and their cousin, Sandy take off on a journey to find it.

After being warned of the dangers of the journey, as well as the threat of being jailed for illegal prospecting of diamonds, the family splits into teams and heads of to find their treasure. But add a villain and a beautiful woman into the throng and the story takes a dangerous turn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781448213863

Dennis Wheatley

Dennis Yates Wheatley (1897–1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world's best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s. His Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming's James Bond stories. Born in South London, he was the eldest of three children of an upper-middle-class family, the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College. Soon after his expulsion Wheatley became a British Merchant Navy officer cadet on the training ship HMS Worcester. During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain. During his life, he wrote more than 70 books which sold over 50 million copies.

Book preview

THE FABULOUS VALLEY

by

Dennis Wheatley

This book has been lightly edited for style and pace, at the request of the Wheatley family.

To

PEGGY AND BINO

Together with those many South African

friends in London and the Union whose

kindness enabled me to enjoy every

moment of my stay in their wonderful

country.

Contents

Introduction

1. The Heirs Apparent of John Thomas Long

2. The Will

3. If Blood is Thicker than Water?

4. Certain Inquiries and an Unpleasant Surprise

5. Of Liars and Others

6. A Thief in the Night

7. The Quickest Way to Africa

8. The Knobkerrie of the Zulu Induna

9. Sandy Makes an Alliance in Pretoria

10. From the Cape through the Karroo to First-hand Information

11. The Return from Durban to the Rand

12. Love and Conspiracy in Johnannesburg

13. Armistice and Treachery

14. The Necklace of Kieviet the Witch Doctor

15. Sarie Plays a Part and Two Lovers Quarrel

16. The Leopard Skin Kaross of Ombulike the Hottentot

17. Kalahari Picnic

18. Kalahari Hell

19. The Underground River

20. The Valley of the Leopards

21. Death in the Sunshine

22. The Land of ‘The Great Thirst’

23. Blood Is Thicker than Water

24. Robbery under Arms

25. Gandhi’s House

26. Illicit Diamonds

27. The Road to Portuguese East

28. Night in the Fever Country

29. The Caged Birds Sing

A Note on the Author

Introduction

Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.

As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.

There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.

There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.

He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ‘all his books’.

Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.

He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.

He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.

The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.

Dominic Wheatley, 2013

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1

The Heirs Apparent of John Thomas Long

The rain ran in little trickles down the narrow panes of the window in the lawyer’s waiting-room. The clerk stood in the doorway twisting his knobbly hands with a servile smirk.

‘I am sorry, Mr. Long, but Mr. Bullett is busy on a Court case for to-morrow and says he can’t see you until the others are here. He’ll be pleased to give you a few minutes afterwards.’

Henry Long gave the bent old man a distrustful look from his shrewd grey eyes which were separated by a long, thin, knife-like nose, suggesting a certain closeness of character. Apart from that feature, however, his face was rather a fine one. His broad forehead was crowned with close-cropped grizzled hair, his cheek bones were high, but balanced by a firm mouth and determined chin. He nodded dismissal to the clerk and turned to his daughter who was seated near him.

‘I might have known,’ he muttered, ‘that Bullett would find some excuse to avoid being pressed for any information before the reading of the Will.’

‘Never mind,’ she replied soothingly, ‘we shall know all about it soon.’ As she spoke the door opened to admit a woman in her early sixties, who bore a striking resemblance to Henry Long, and a dark, smartly dressed young man, whose eyes rested on the girl with quick interest.

‘Well, Gertrude,’ Henry Long offered a grudging hand to his elder sister whom he had not seen for many years. ‘How are you?’

She smiled a little bleakly but her eyes held a gentleness which her brother’s lacked. ‘You haven’t altered much. And this is your girl Patricia, I suppose? She does you credit, Henry!’

Patricia stared with envious admiration at this unknown aunt, the bad woman of the family, who had deserted her husband and children to elope with the rich landowner, Heron Kane-Swift. From her early childhood Aunt Gertrude had been painted for her as the Scarlet Woman of Babylon by her strictly religious parent.

‘Of course, you haven’t met my boy, have you?’ Gertrude Kane-Swift went on; ‘Michael, this is your Uncle Henry and your cousin Patricia.’

All that Michael had ever heard of his Uncle Henry had predisposed him to dislike the man and now that he met him he saw no cause to alter his feelings, but little cousin Patricia was quite a different matter. Unlike her father she had a Roman nose and a large pair of limpid hazel eyes. Her chin was strong and firm, and her thick, dark curls were cleverly arranged under a small hat.

As she took his hand she was studying him with equal interest. He too had the dark wavy hair of the family but his nose was almost snub, evidently a legacy from the late Heron Kane-Swift. He was a little under medium height but broad shouldered and well proportioned. Without being in any way good looking, his open and ingenuous face was full of charm. Their greetings were hardly over when the door opened once more, the clerk announcing in the low voice common to his profession, ‘Mr. George and Mr. Ernest Bennett.’

‘Hello, Mother!’ The elder, a rotund and almost bald man of forty, advanced on Gertrude with a joviality that his acquaintances would have thought natural to him, but which in this particular instance was decidedly forced. He had not seen her since they had met seven years before in this same lawyer’s waiting-room on family business. He and his brother had also been taught to regard her as a Scarlet Woman since their childhood and, although he was naturally of an easy disposition, he found such meetings awkward to a degree. He pecked her cheek in diffident haste and turned to the others.

‘Hello, Henry!—Hope you’re well,’ he said abruptly. George Bennett found very few people in this world whom he cordially disliked but it did rankle with him that, when his father had committed suicide on their mother’s desertion, his wealthy uncle had denied his brother and himself the benefits of an upper-class education, and allowed them to do as well as they could in a secondary school.

Ernest, a slimmer and slightly taller edition of George, differed from his brother principally in possessing his mother’s nose developed to an unusual degree of fleshiness, and an underhung chin. His perpetually open mouth would have given him a stupid expression but for the quick dark sparrow-like eyes common to the two, inherited from their Bennett father.

He ignored his uncle altogether and, having kissed his mother with equal haste and embarrassment, shook hands with Patricia, then turned on the younger man. ‘So this is half-brother Michael—Just to think of you being grown up now!’

‘And a fine young fellow, too,’ added the rubicund George. ‘Put it there, my boy, I’m pleased to meet you—after all these years.’

Michael gave them both a friendly smile. When his mother had abandoned the middle-class Mr. Bennett for a higher social sphere, she had severed all connection with her family and, although Michael had suggested once or twice in recent years that he would like to meet his two half-brothers, she had been quite adamant about it. Perhaps it was partly a feeling of guilt at having deserted her two elder sons, but even more she had felt it her duty to protect her cherished Michael from any association with his socially dubious relatives.

‘Well! well! here we are,’ exclaimed George cheerfully, ‘all come along to collect our share of Uncle John’s spondulicks, eh?’

‘I trust you’re right,’ agreed Henry sourly, ‘and that he’s done better by his family now that he is dead than he did when he was alive.’

‘Oh, come,’ George protested, ‘his family didn’t do much for him that I’ve ever heard of.’

‘Speak of what you know,’ the elder man’s voice was sharp. ‘Your Uncle John was a ne’er-do-well of the worst description. He was always in trouble and always writing home for assistance of some kind or other.’

It was on the tip of Ernest’s tongue to say: ‘Well, he didn’t get much for you, I bet,’ but he confined himself to a wink at his elder brother and said instead: ‘He’s been no trouble this last ten years any old how.’

‘I wonder what he was worth,’ Michael observed. ‘I met a man two years ago who had known him in Hong Kong and said that he lived like a Merchant Prince. Kept open house for everybody—drinks galore—and apparently a sort of harem for the amusement of his friends.’

His uncle nodded. ‘I can well believe it. That is just the evil course of life which John would have adopted directly he made money. We can only hope that he has not squandered it all, but set aside something for those to whom he caused so much trouble in his youth—but we are all here, so why does Bullett keep us waiting?’

‘There is Susan’s boy—Sandy,’ Gertrude remarked, ‘but it is hardly likely that he would come over from South Africa. Bullett will send him a copy of the Will.’

‘Have any of you ever seen him?’ George Bennett inquired.

They all shook their heads except Gertrude, who went on reminiscently: ‘He must be about thirty-five now, I suppose, and I remember hearing somewhere that his father died shortly after Susan. Of course, she did quite well for herself because McDiamid owned a nice property at the Cape, so I suppose Sandy is still running the vineyards and the fruit…’

Before she could finish her sentence, the door opened and a tall, athletic-looking man was shown in. He, too, had the dark colouring of the Long family but his hair, parted at the side, lacked the usual curl and a long lock which swept across his forehead fell forward as he removed his hat.

He pushed it backwards with a quick movement of his hand, smiling a little uncertainly at this group of unknown relatives and striving to place them from the little his mother had told him of her dreary life in England with her brother Henry before she met and married the young South African wine-grower.

As a child he had often listened to his fiery father’s diatribes against the mean and sanctimonious uncle who had made his mother’s young life a burden and, in the chill, impassive man seated upright on a hard chair near the window, he had no difficulty in recognising his uncle.

Ernest Bennett broke the strained silence. ‘Come in, my boy,’ he cried, his prominent Adam’s apple working overtime. ‘This isn’t exactly home, sweet home, but at least they’ve put Welcome on the mat.’

Sandy could not help laughing as he introduced himself to the rest of the party but before he could find a suitable reply the clerk reappeared with his smug little smirk and said:

‘If you will please come this way, Mr. Bullett will see you now.’

2

The Will

Surrounded by the dusty litter of bygone legislation, Mr. Bullett, lean, parched and prim, regarded the group severely over his nickel-rimmed spectacles. Extra horse-hair covered chairs, the springs of which may possibly have been good when Queen Victoria gave birth to her first child, were imported from the outer office.

Sandy McDiamid looked round him with distaste. It was his first visit to England, for his fruit farm and vineyards tied him in most seasons. Moreover, a succession of bad years after his father’s death had prevented the accumulation of sufficient funds to do the trip in real comfort, free of all anxiety as to expense.

Recalling the bright modern office of his own solicitor in Cape Town, it seemed strange to him that this London lawyer, presumably a member of a firm of good repute, should conduct his business in such gloomy surroundings.

The grey January light from an unbroken sky of lead filtered in through the grime on the rain-streaked window. A travesty of a fire consisting of three small lumps of coal, burned dully in a tiny old-fashioned, black-leaded grate. A few faded photographs, one of a severe-looking man with side whiskers, and others of cricket teams long since dispersed, hung on the dull, time-streaked walls. Bundles of dusty papers lay carelessly piled on every ledge and on top of four stacks of lustreless tin deed boxes.

Sandy was the only member of the party who felt no anxiety regarding the contents of the Will. With an independence of spirit, common among those whose parents have broken away from family ties to make their home overseas, he saw no reason why this uncle, whom he had hardly ever heard of, should leave him anything. If he were down for a hundred guineas—and he certainly did not expect more—it would be a useful contribution towards the cost of his holiday, but the lawyer would send him what was his due in any case. He had answered the summons in person only because, happening to be in England, he thought it would be amusing to have a look at any other members of the family who turned up, although he would never have bothered to hunt them out in ordinary circumstances.

When they had all shaken hands with Mr. Bullett and seated themselves round his desk, the lawyer observed blandly: ‘You are, of course, aware of the business which has necessitated my asking you to call here to-day.’ He gave a little dry cough and sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers softly together as he added: ‘I have to read to you the Will of my late client, John Thomas Long.’

There was a little shuffling of feet as he selected a paper from one of the many be-ribboned bundles in front of him, opened it out carefully, and proceeded to read:

‘ "This is the last Will and Testament of me, John Thomas Long, gentleman, of Moon Gates, The Peak, Hong Kong, China, being of sound health and in my right mind.

‘ I appoint William Yates Bullett of Messrs. Bullett, Bullett, Leggett and Bullett, solicitors, of No. 97, Gray’s Inn, London, W.C.I., to be my sole executor, and ask him to accept the sum of one thousand guineas; in addition to any legal expenses to which his firm may be entitled, as a mark of appreciation of his trustworthy management of my affairs and the considerable trouble which I caused him when I was a younger man.’

Gertrude Kane-Swift nodded silently. Certainly John had caused the family lawyer trouble enough with the continual scrapes into which he used to get. A thousand guineas was a lot of money but surely it argued that, if he could afford so much to his lawyer, there was plenty more to come.

‘ I direct that the aforesaid William Yates Bullet, ’ went on the gentleman concerned, ‘ "should realise the whole of my Stocks, Shares, Property and Investments, with the exception of my house in Hong Kong, for cash, and that the following legacies shall be paid, from the sum realised, to the persons named below.

‘ £20,000 to Lucy Benton, last heard of by me as living at 72, Mearton Mansions, Handel Street, Bloomsbury, London, in 1920.’

The family looked at one another silently, questioning if any of them knew the fortunate Lucy, but Mr. Bullett was reading on:

‘ £20,000 to Aileen Orkney, wife of William Bishop Orkney, last heard of by me as living in Hilton Road, Sea Point, Cape Town, South Africa, in 1924.’

A sudden horrible fear crossed the mind of Henry Long. Was it possible that John’s dreadful impish humour, which had made it so difficult for him to understand his brother, had induced him to make a mock of them by leaving his entire fortune to complete strangers? The others sat, tense and silent, hanging upon Mr. Bullett’s words.

‘ "£20,000 to Violet Robins, née Twisdon, last heard of by me at 122, Cemetery Road, Norwood, London, S.E., in 1904.’

A sudden chuckle broke the stillness of the dusty room. It came from Sandy McDiamid, at the realisation that wicked Uncle John was parcelling out his splendid fortune to all his past mistresses. ‘Anybody know these ladies?’ he inquired, shaking back the dark lock of hair from his forehead again.

‘I knew Violet,’ Henry replied grimly. ‘She was a slip of a girl that John was once in love with, but she turned him down for a man named Robins. This Will is a scandal and an insult.’

‘Be patient, please,’ Mr. Bullett reproved the interruption.

‘ £20,000 to Judge Van Niekerk, of The Jacarandas, Church Street, Pretoria, South Africa.’

‘Well, I know who he is,’ murmured Sandy, ‘but I thought the old boy was dead.’

Ignoring the remark, Mr. Bullet went on:

‘ "£20,000 to Mademoiselle Collette La Cloche, refugee from Armentiéres, last heard of by me as employed at the Estaminet of Les Deux Freres in the village of Bermicourt, near St. Pol, France, in 1917."’

A worried grin spread over George Bennett’s plump face. ‘Tribute to the part our gallant Allies played in the War, I reckon,’ he said, with as much cheerfulness as he could muster.

‘Old soldiers never die!’ added his brother.

The spirits of the family had sunk to zero. Already £100,000 of that fortune which had occupied their every thought for the last few weeks had melted away.

Henry’s lean fists were tightly clenched. His nails bit into the palms with indignation and anger. ‘Go on, go on,’ he muttered quickly, ‘let’s have this farce done with.’

The lawyer nodded.

‘ "£5,000 to Lieutenant Roger Philbeach, 461st Brigade R.F.A. (Territorial Force), last heard of by me as a traveller for Messrs., Rithen, Ruthern & Co,’ Wine Merchants, London in 1923.

‘ "£5,000 to Joe-Jack Mahout, last heard of by me as barman at the Royal Hotel, Durban, South Africa, in 1923.

‘ £5,000 to Israel Rubenstein, last heard of by me at 299, Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, London, in 1919.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed George. ‘It’s like a draw in the Irish Sweep for all these people, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ muttered Ernest, ‘and we’ll be lucky if we’re listed in the hundreds.’

‘There is only one more bequest,’ went on Mr. Bullett, and that is:

‘ "£50,000 to the Mandarin Loo Hi Foo of Hang Chow, China, conditional upon his consenting to pardon and rehabilitate his daughter Almond-Tree-in-Blossom, who has filled the last years of my life with happiness. Should he refuse, this sum is to be paid to the aforesaid lady, together with, in any case, the residue of my Estate, including such sums as have been allocated to persons in this my Will should they pre-decease me.

‘ To the above-named lady, Miss Almond-Tree-in-Blossom, I also leave my house in Hong Kong, together with all its fixtures, fittings etc. and my personal effects.’

The lawyer paused and regarded their disappointed faces for a moment over his spectacles.

‘How much do you think this celestial beauty will come in for?’ asked Michael curiously, his brown eyes twinkling.

‘It is a little difficult to say. If her father accepts the £50,000 the bequests will amount to £166,000, but I learn that Van Niekerk and Violet Robins are both dead, so that reduces them to £126,000, but even after taxation has been paid the Estate should realise some £180,000 at a low estimate.’

With a grey face, Henry Long jerked himself to his feet. ‘Come!’he snapped through clenched teeth to his daughter, ‘I consider it is a disgrace that we should have been dragged here to listen to this wicked record of an ill-spent life. I shall consult another solicitor, Bullett, with a view to contesting the validity of this Will in the Courts.’

‘One moment!’ The lawyer held up a slim, dry hand. ‘This Will is properly attested in due legal form and even a doctor’s certificate as to the sanity of the testator at the time it was drawn up has been attached. You can consult any solicitor you like but I feel certain that he will bear me out in my opinion that its validity is quite unshakable. However, I did not ask you here to-day only to listen to the reading of a Will which benefits none of you—there is another matter.’

Henry sat down again, while the others stiffened to a new attention.

‘You are, I think, all aware that up till about ten years ago the late John Thomas Long drifted about the world in what might almost be described as precarious circumstances. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, he never had a penny except the small sums which he earned from time to time as prospector and hunter or in casual employment as bond salesman, motor car agent—and temporary manager on various South African farms. Yet at a certain date we learn of his sudden and inexplicable rise to considerable riches. How his fortune, of which you have just learned the disposal, was acquired has always been a mystery, but in addition to his Will he left a letter giving particulars of the source from which it came. That is his sole legacy to his blood relations and I am about to read it to you now.’

3

If Blood is Thicker than Water?

Mr. Bullett coughed again, picked up another paper from his desk, adjusted his spectacles and proceeded:

‘ "Brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces. You will note that I do not address any of you as ‘Dear’ because you are not dear to me in any sense. You will by this time have heard the contents of my Will and have noted, with varying degrees of disappointment and anger, that I have left all my money to those who gave me pleasure in my lifetime, which none of you can ever claim to have done.

‘ "Old skin-flint Henry is listening to this, I have not a doubt, for he will cling to life just as he has always clung to his money bags, and it is one of my few regrets that I shall not be present to witness his discomfort. Gertrude, too, perhaps and, although I owe her nothing, in view of her consistent disregard

Reviews for The Fabulous Valley

[nwdavies-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Not one of his best, but once you're past the travelogue-like early sections it picks up pace and the last third of the book is typical Wheatley rip-roaring adventure and very enjoyable. Be warned, however, that the deep-seated racism of our colonial past is very much in evidence at times. However this (and all books for that matter) should be read while being aware of the time and culture it was written in. It shows how fiction can give us a glimpse of the social morals and attitudes of earlier times while still entertaining us.